


Moment's Silence

by littlelionlady



Series: Put your love down [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Clueless Illya, Clueless Napoleon, Embarrassed Illya, Espionage, Fluff, Hand Jobs, I mean, Idiots in Love, Illya teaches Napoleon about self worth, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Napoleon Solo is a mess, Napoleon Solo is basically a house wife, Napoleon is trying to cure love, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rating May Change, Self-Worth Issues, Soft Illya Kuryakin, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, This whole thing is basically about jealousy, Title from a Hozier Song, and maybe blowjobs, and miscommunication, boy just you wait, but i did it, have you listened to the song, i don't know how you imply a praise kink, implied praise kink, its about oral sex okay, that fic grew legs, that sounds made up, this is soft, with sex, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: There's got to be a reason Napoleon feels like this; like he will never be able to get that stupid Russian out of his head.There has to be aremedy.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Put your love down [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788553
Comments: 55
Kudos: 304





	1. Reason Comes

The thing about Illya that annoyed Napoleon was how beautiful he was without trying. He was two tones. Everything about him was in two tones. His eyes had two tones of blue and his blonde hair was two tones of gold. Even his skin was sun-browned in places that saw the sun and alabaster in all the hidden places Napoleon only got to see when he was patching them up. His top lip was slightly lighter in colour than his bottom, and Napoleon put this down to the Russian biting it when he was concentrating on chess. As for the rest of him; Napoleon wasn't a small man by any means but Illya Kuryakin made him feel small. Impossibly proud shoulders, exceptionally toned back, arms and legs roped in muscles. He had built his body into a weapon. Illya had an almost perfectly straight nose, which annoyed Napoleon to no end. Someone who got into as many fights as Illya should not have had such a straight nose. 

And the way he _moved._ Napoleon had never met anyone who was as tense as Illya Kuryakin. But somewhere in all that tension was an effortless grace; the kind of effortless grace that came from a dancer showcased regularly by Gaby. Next to each other, they moved so sinuously, Napoleon felt like a baby gazelle. 

After all of this, after seeing him at his worst; beaten and broken and vibrating with rage and grace, after seeing him as the weapon the KGB had made of him, Napoleon had seen Illya carry sweet young Gaby to bed. He had seen Illya carefully handle old books, and stitch Napoleon’s gashes closed with impeccable precision, so they would not leave a scar. He had seen Illya’s soft smiles and genuine amusement and he loved every second he could bask in it.

  
  
  


It was no surprise to anyone that Solo’s tendencies included both women and men. The real surprise wasn't even when Gaby and Illya both shrugged and said they already knew. The real surprise came not long after, when in the middle of an exceptionally crucial moment of their mission, while Solo picked a lock, and Gaby was entertaining their mark and Illya sat in the front seat of their getaway car carefully parked in a corner outside Gaby’s location. When over their earpieces Illya explained that his tendencies tended to go the same way. Gaby sighed. Solo tried to push down the small bubble of elation that got stuck in his throat, choking him. For a moment, he froze, alone in the hallway, trying to make words push through the feeling. To tell Peril that it didn't change anything. 

Instead, all that came out was, “Is there a reason you're telling us this now?”

“Stop wasting time Cowboy,” Illya hissed, effectively avoiding the question, “Guards are still patrolling.”

Napoleon let go of the breath he had been holding, and stretched his frozen fingers, turning back to the lock. 

Five minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, briefcase clutched in his hand, walking as quietly and normally as possible. 

“Got it,” he whispered. 

He heard Gaby make her excuses to leave the Chancellor, claiming an acute case of food poisoning had just accosted her before running from the hall. 

“We're coming to get you, Cowboy. See you at rendezvous,” the Russian’s baritone hummed, contentment at their little mission going off without a hitch. The french sounded delightfully foreign in his thick Russian accent and sent Napoleon's stomach quivering involuntarily. He pushed it all done and continued an even pace down the street. 

“I'll see you soon then.”

“Well done,” Gaby huffed. The line crackled under the sound of her laboured breathing. 

“Same to you Miss Teller, though I think you may have to join Peril in his morning runs by the sound of it.”

Illya hummed in agreement. 

Gaby grumbled something about running in heels. 

“It doesn’t change anything Peril,” he heard himself whisper, cursing his lips for betraying him now when he had needed to say it minutes ago. His voice sounded thick and disconnected from his body, and every part of him ached to make Illya feel as accepted as he did.  
The Russian’s answering sigh was exasperated, “I know.” 

Napoleon nodded even though Illya couldn’t see him. 

  
  
  
  


“Buying me drinks now Peril?” he cocked an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. The kind of aloof flirting that would have any other man melting. Illya merely shrugged and lifted the glass. 

“I figured I would need something to keep me entertained this evening,” he said before throwing back the scotch. 

Napoleon watched his Adam's apple bounce in his throat and swallowed heavily. Illya did have a lovely throat. He wanted to kiss his way up it. 

He threw back his scotch, relishing the burn, and grabbed Gaby’s hand. 

“Excellent. Now that you've got yourself sorted, we'll be back later,” and he whisked his dance partner off into the crowd. 

Gaby was well and truly out of breath when sometime in the early morning, Napoleon let her stumble off the dance floor, nattering on about how she should take Illya up on his offer to go running. 

“Miss Teller,” he teased, “I'd expect you to have better stamina with the way you flirt.”

She punched him in the stomach, effectively shutting him up. And it was in this moment, Napoleon looked up, while his heart sunk somewhere around his now bruised navel. 

“Who’s that with Illya?” She asked, oblivious to the uncomfortable hollow pain Napoleon was experiencing in his torso. He stood and shrugged, schooling his face into what he hoped was cool indifference. 

Illya Kuryakin was engaged in deep and animated conversation with a very beautiful blonde woman. Napoleon had personally gone off blonde women ever since Victoria Vinciguerra. Blonde men, on the other hand, were always a weakness he couldn’t quite resist. And this particular blonde man, that made Napoleon feel things he had no name for, was leaning towards the woman, chin resting on his hand, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips like she was the most rapturous thing he'd ever seen. She said something that made him laugh, a whole-body movement that left Napoleon breathless. Solo crushed the jealousy down, refusing to recognise the feeling. Gaby took him by the elbow and tugged him over towards the table.

She cleared her throat. Illya blinked a few times and faced her, “Yes?” 

“Can we have the scotch?” Gaby asked, almost completely ignoring the woman except to cast a scrutinising glance in her direction. Napoleon ignored her, choosing to be caught between the incredible moment the manners taught behind the Iron Curtain failed yet again. 

“Only if you get me bottle of vodka,” came the reply. 

It was almost always like this between them - no pretence, just straight to the point. Never willing to play the game. Or maybe it was their own game, trading what little they had for amusement. A trait that Napoleon found infinitely unfair. He thought, at first, that maybe they were just like this to annoy him, take away all the buttons and there's nothing left to push. 

“Forget it,” Gaby grumbled, “I'd rather get the vodka for myself.”

Gaby turned to the woman next to Illya, brown eyes flashing, “Where are my manners?” she said, sticking her hand out, “Cynthia.”

While Gaby and the woman exchanged pleasantries, Napoleon flicked his eyes between the exit, the bar, and his fingernails, studiously avoiding the stare he could feel burning into the side of his face. He knew he was acting strangely, ignoring a beautiful woman in favour of glaring at his surroundings. 

“So,” the woman began, open and curious, “Are you both friends of Illya’s?” 

Abruptly shocked completely still, both Gaby and Napoleon rounded a look at Illya that with raised eyebrows and pursed lips that _demanded_ answers. Gaby recovered herself first, “Yes. Just out for a night. We leave again in three days.”

The woman nodded, her eyes flicking past Gaby to Napoleon, who was having a highly involved staring contest with Illya who was refusing to have one back. 

“Well,” Gaby noticed and took Napoleon's arm in a vice-like grip, that from the outside would seem nothing short of friendly, “We'll be off. See you back at the apartment Illya?” Her tone informed him that the woman was not welcome. 

He sighed in response and turned back to her with that shrewd smile Napoleon wanted to only be directed at him. His heart, already around his belly button, sunk to the soles of his feet. He took a deep breath, secured Gaby’d hand more firmly around his bicep and plastered a small smile to his face. He told Illya to be safe, do nothing he wouldn’t do with what he hoped was his most lurid smirk, and winked at him before turning back to Gaby. 

“Bye Peril. There's a condom in your jacket pocket,” he said with false cheer, rewarded with a shade of red in Illya cheeks that suggested sunburn. He knew he would pay for it later, but at that moment, with jealousy strong enough to kill a small army coursing through his veins, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was being a child, a petulant, jealous child. He turned to Gaby, ignoring how she squeezed his arm hard enough to leave a bruise and said, 

“Shall we?”

Illya returned to their hotel in time for breakfast. He smelt like cigarettes and perfume that reminded Gaby cloyingly of violets. Napoleon ignored him for the rest of the day. 

  
  
  
  


“You told her your name?” Gaby’s question came out more like a demand. 

Napoleon sipped his scotch as he stirred their dinner, looking comical in his suit and apron. He was trying not to listen to the conversation Gaby was striking up with Illya in the sitting room of their hotel and failing dismally. The only thing separating them was the kitchen bench and the sound of their food cooking. 

“Only first name,” he replied, barely glancing up before returning to his one-man chess game. 

They sat in silence for a moment until Gaby realised Illya wasn’t going to willing divulge any more information. Still, she pressed on. 

“Why? Waverley told us when we joined U.N.C.L.E that what we do on our down-time is up to us, but we should keep our identities _private_ ; you do not hand out your name so freely. In fact,” she leaned forward in her chair, forcing herself into Illya’s space and demanding that he look at her, “You would have given us a false name if you thought you could have gotten away with it.”  
  
Napoleon heard Illya huff and mutter something in Russian about not lying to them, followed by, “I do not have to explain myself to you.”  
  
This was the wrong thing to say. Napoleon knew it as soon as he heard it. Illya knew as soon as it was out of his mouth.  
  
“Yes, you do Illya,” Gaby’s voice was low and icy. Napoleon became worried that, for once, maybe it wouldn’t be Illya to wreck their room, maybe it would be Gaby, “You do when you start jeopardising us right before extraction. You do when we are harbouring top secret information that she could have been trying to steal!” 

The apartment returned to silence, save for Gaby’s heavy breathing. Napoleon still stood with his back to them, stirring the pot idly, listening intently and not caring who noticed. He had wondered about this too. Wondered and refused to ask. Wondered why this woman had been given full access to the enigma Napoleon so desperately wanted to pull apart layer by layer. Wondered why he thought it was a good idea for them to spent their precious few moments of time off together. 

“I do not want anyone to wake up next to stranger,” he huffed, angry and embarrassed, “You do not trust me, fine. But do not question my life. You are not my handler.” 

He turned back to the chessboard as the wind seemed to deflate from Gaby’s sails. She sat heavily in the chair opposite and closed her eyes. 

Napoleon’s stomach felt like it had been shocked by electricity. He squeezed his eyes shut. Trying to push past the ringing words in his ears. He tried to hide the little choke in his throat by coughing, breaking the palpable tension. They'd forgotten he was here. 

He downed the rest of his scotch in one swallow, put the glass down and took off the apron. He was trying to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe. 

“I'll be back,” he tried to sound normal, cheerful even. It came out muffled. 

“Food is ready. Serve yourself.”

He grabbed his coat and all but tore out of the hotel, hands shaking as he went. 


	2. Common Tongue

Napoleon wasn't a saint by any means. He was notorious for disappearing without a word, only to emerge 24 hours later with lipstick on his collar and bruises on his collarbones; sometimes limping and, once, even chafed at the wrist. When Illya had seen these, he'd demanded to know when Napoleon had been captured, to which the American had only laughed wickedly; eyes glazed, smile easy. The universally recognised look of the freshly fucked. It was in these moments his team would snip at him, only to remind themselves his file said ‘serial womaniser’ for a reason. A term which Illya and Gaby had come to learn was CIA slang for “easy.” 

Illya was never going to forget the wink Napoleon would throw him as he was led away by a new conquest like they were sharing some private joke. Napoleon was used to bedding marks for the sake of the mission, and when he worked for the CIA, a large part of his job was to seduce people for information. He’d even enjoyed it at first. He had discovered, very early into his sentence, that his body was a property of the state. The least he could do was use it to his advantage. 

When Waverley had first asked it of him, Napoleon shouldn’t have been surprised; it was in his file, it made sense that his new handler would want to use this skill. The American had been hoping that Waverley would have the decency to consider it _uncouth._ He was sorely mistaken and was very good at hiding it. Gaby had shrugged, stating it was a good skill set for him to have. Illya had clenched his fists and looked away. Napoleon ignored it. 

Solo had taken their mark to bed one night and taken a dark-haired, slender man to bed the following night. Barely more than a boy, with suntanned skin and an easy smile. Something to wash the taste of deceit from his mouth and skin. Something to remove the saccharine smell of vanilla and roses from her perfume from his clothes and skin and hair. The smelt clean and male and Napoleon was grateful. 

Even if those blue eyes were not the right shade of blue, and that suntanned skin and hair were slightly too dark, and the boy was too slight, too small. Napoleon decided not to dwell on it. 

As the trio settled into their roles with U.N.C.L.E, Waverley found that Napoleon’s skill set had excellent results; “It’s easier to catch flies with sugar than with vinegar chaps,” he said, peering over his glasses and clapping Napoleon on the shoulder, ignoring his slight wince and Illya’s accompanying fidget. 

There had been two other missions, in three different countries, requiring Napoleon to sleep with four people. In all of this, he washed his lies from his mouth with as many men and women as he could charm. 

He wasn’t keeping count. 

He had stopped winking at Illya. He had stopped talking to Illya, who had taken it upon himself to disappear into the night on two other occasions himself. 

Napoleon still wasn’t keeping count.  
  
Gaby, in a fit of rage at their complete lack of communication, had thrown her hands in the air and called them both harlots. 

He didn’t care who Illya slept with, _he didn’t_. And yet when the blonde returned home smiling sheepishly as Gaby tsked him and poured more coffee, Napoleon couldn’t help but imagine it, with a small twist of guilt and jealousy. Illya over some small brunette, whispering Russian against her lips and cheeks and breasts and thighs, back muscles flexing, head tossed to the side; Illya pressed flush against some pale boy - skin too perfect against Illya’s scars - grunting and sticky with sweat, cursing in Russian and holding the slight frame against his torso. The boy would look comically small next to Illya. 

Or how he would look, fly undone, pants around his knees, the same boy on his knees, lips red and slick and stretched obscenely around his cock. Illya, barely making a noise, hand in the boy’s hair, choking and cursing at the boy's throat worked around him. 

Easily overpowered. It made Napoleon feel sick.

He made it a personal obligation to disappear that night, and every night he wasn't required for a mission, and reemerge with a new guest in his bed. Someone who would not be blonde. Even if all Napoleon thought about in his overly enthusiastic lie was what Illya would look like wrapped around him. What it would be like if he could make Illya’s face twist in pleasure while he strained his knees.  
  
When he left in the morning, kissing their cheeks and thanking them for the night, he felt empty and dirty. Hollowed out, told he had to stand while there was nothing left inside to hold him up. Every morning he knew it was a mistake, as he stumbled into the shower and scrubbed his skin of saliva and lipstick and cum. He knew he couldn’t make the feeling go away. He had no hold on the Russian, he wasn’t his handler. Wasn’t his boyfriend. Napoleon wasn’t even sure he wanted to be. But that look, that small smiling frown he had turned to pointedly on the woman all those weeks ago still made his stomach drop out.  
  
  


Napoleon’s exploits had reached numbers that not even he could be bothered to keep track of. However, he had no such qualms about Illya’s exploits. He knew full well that Illya had been in a total of 6 beds including that woman. He brooded on this while brushing his hair in the mirror and studiously ignoring his own eyes and the bruises dotting his skin; some fresh and purple while others showed the signs of age in green and yellow. 

Gaby knocked on the bathroom door, “Napoleon?” she called.  
  
When he opened the door, she was sitting on his bed, ankles crossed and half a foot off the floor, leaning back on her hands, lips painted a slight pink and hair tied loosely at the back of her head. She was scowling at him.  
  
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. He was still in the doorway of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel and dripping water.  
  
He wanted to cover the bruises on his body. A particularly fresh, purple one on his left pectoral made him fight down another wave of shame.  
  
“How so this time?” he asked noncommittally, making his hands busy by picking a suit out of the closet. 

She sighed, still angry but voice missing it’s bite, “Before you were being reckless,” she sounded almost desperate, “And neither of us could work out why. But I think I’ve worked it out. I think I know exactly when it happened Solo.”

He studied the state of his shoes and forced himself to reject the torrent clenching his chest and blocking his throat; he didn't have to tell her that he wanted Illya to smile indulgently at him, that this sick twisted feeling in his guts when he thought about Illya with someone else made him want to vomit and cry and commit a murder most heinous. He didn't want to tell her that his every thought was full of Illya Illya Illya and he couldn't pinpoint when it started because it felt like it just always was. That when he's lying in a stranger’s bed, Illya was all he imagined next to him. That when he's balls deep and wanting, the thought of Illya is what took him over the edge. He didn’t want to tell her that he would do anything, give anything, _be anything,_ to take Illya apart with his mouth until he was shaking and spent just to prove he could. 

He didn't want to tell Gaby, so he kept his mouth shut. 

She sighed, “But now it’s just getting dangerous Napoleon.”

He shrugged, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

She launched off the bed and stalked over to him, pressing down hard on the bruise and making him wince, “Don’t treat me like a fool; I know a woman didn’t do this to you. You are going to get yourself killed the way you throw yourself around,” she took a deep breath and took a step back, trying to school her features. 

“What I meant to say is, I have no problem with who you sleep with -”

Napoleon cut her off, her tone too rehearsed, his tone icy in a way she was not accustomed to, “And yet that sounds like exactly your problem Miss Teller. Need I remind you that my business is my own, and my affairs are yet to interfere with my ability to do my job,” he pushed her hand out of his face, “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to get dressed in private.”  
  
He nodded expectantly towards the door, forgetting for a moment the sour taste in his mouth at her words. The shame was threatening to overwhelm him, a feeling he had rarely had to deal with before.   
  
Gaby’s face turned stony. She turned and stalked out of the room.  
  
Napoleon went back to the bathroom and scoured his teeth under the scalding water of the shower, hoping his skin would peel off. 

His mouth still tasted like vinegar. 

  
  
  
  


In London, after giving Waverley their collective debriefing, Napoleon was asked to stay behind. Illya raised an eyebrow at him, mouth open as if to say something but Gaby took his arm and dragged him out, refusing to look Napoleon in the eye.

"Mr Solo, it's come to my attention that you have been rather _busy_ these last few missions."

Napoleon saw red. 

“Excuse me, sir?” 

At least Waverley looked uncomfortable; small mercy. Gaby had put him up to this. Gaby had _taddled_ on Napoleon like they were in elementary school.

“Solo please, just don’t let your activities get in the way of your ability to do your job.”  
  
Napoleon stood, almost knocking his chair over, “With all due respect _sir_ , it hasn’t yet,” his voice was ice cold, “And I don’t see Agent Kuryakin around here anywhere,” he gestured to the seat Illya had vacated, “He’s not blameless in this. And neither is Gaby for that matter,” Napoleon hissed out angrily, remembering Gaby’s obvious excuses to return to the lobby bar after Spain. 

“Perhaps Miss Teller should focus on the task at hand?” 

“It wasn’t Miss Teller,” the Englishman adjusted his shirtsleeves and levelled Napoleon with a glare. 

For a moment, Napoleon was sure he had misheard his handler. 

“You’re kidding; _Illya?_ ” 

“Afraid so Solo. Now, it's no one’s business but your _team_ fears for your ability to function as a unit.” 

Napoleon sat heavily in his previously occupied chair.  
  
Waverley opened his mouth and then closed it again. Napoleon took that as a cue for one more comment, “I am a grown man, and my penchant for women is in my file; I thought you knew that when you hired me?” It felt wrong to use Sanders’ CIA assessment if you could even call it that, to his advantage. And technically, he had just labelled himself as a whore. But it was nothing different to what Sanders had already ensured, and what everyone else had expected. For once, he would use it to _his_ advantage; he would bed people until he couldn’t think anymore. Until he couldn’t think of _Illya_ anymore. His stomach knotted and he stood slowly, taking a step until this hip met the edge of Waverley’s desk.  
  
He raised an eyebrow at Waverley, daring him to contradict himself. He didn’t. 

“You’re quite right Solo. My mistake,” he stood and shook Napoleon’s hand, Napoleon gripped it a little too tight, “I will endeavour to have a little chat with Agent Kuryakin.” 

Napoleon nodded, “Anything else sir?”

Waverley shook his head and Napoleon was out the door before the man could finish. 

  
  
  


Napoleon Solo wasn’t one for hesitation, and yet, he found himself pacing the space between the apartment’s kitchen island and the steadily emptying drink trolley, he found himself considering what Waverly had said; it was Illya who had told Waverley about the last few missions. No matter how Napoleon considered it, he could not ascertain why the Russian would care. He certainly hadn’t cared beyond disapproving glares every so often, yet they were considered natural at this point in their tumultuous relationship. 

Solo threw back the rest of his scotch, grabbed his coat and keys, and took the first Taxi he could hail to Illya’s apartment. The door opened on his third loud knock and rather than greeting the Russian, he just pushed his way into the apartment. 

He had tried to think about what he would say to Illya once he got here; if he would call the Russian on his behaviour if he would ask him why he cared all of the sudden if he would demand to know if Gaby had put him up to it. If he would ask if Illya really meant what he said all those months ago - that he wanted men too. If he wanted Napoleon too. 

Instead, all that came out was, “What the fuck did you tell Waverley?”, at the exact same moment Illya snarled, “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” 

Napoleon took a deep breath, “ Waverley spoke to me after our debrief.” 

Illya shrugged, “So you come to my home?” 

Napoleon shook his head and began pacing again, trying to find the words, “He told me you told him about the last few missions.” 

Illya looked on, folding his wiry arms across an impossible chest. Napoleon didn’t look up, “What I’m trying to say,” and he floundered again, trying to find the right words and knowing before they are even out that he’s fucked it up again, “is, Agent Kuryakin, what gives you the right?”

He sounded angry again, and Illya’s eyebrows pulled down. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and blew out an annoyed breath. 

Napoleon struggled to compose himself but the dam had burst, “Why the fuck do you even care? I mean, you’re not much better! Is this about the number of people? Or is it about the men? Because if it’s about the men then really Peril, you have some fucking issues; that’s the most hypocritical thing I have ever heard and you’re talking to an art thief and CIA agent.” 

He took a deep breath. 

Illya looked up from behind his hand, “You are drunk Cowboy.” 

Napoleon’s head was only spinning a little bit, and he couldn’t be sure if that was from his liberal dosages from the drinks cart back in his apartment or the fact Illya was shirtless and golden in the lamplight. 

“No!” he stood his ground, “I need to know right now; what the hell is your problem?!” 

Heat was blistering below Napoleon’s skin, making his ears roar, “You have done nothing but glare and roll your eyes and casually fucked your way across the continent - so what’s your problem?” 

Illya took a step towards him, “You are fool,” he hissed, snatching Napoleon’s wrist and dragging him close before lifting his other hand to tear his shirt collar away from his neck to push on a pair of teeth marks just below the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

The heat zapped down Napoleon’s spine and he shivered. 

“You keep getting hurt,” he growled, low, and Napoleon felt it reverberate through his chest, “This is not okay.” 

Illya pushed Napoleon away causing him to stumble, “You look like whore,” he spat, “You smell like whore. You do not sleep. You are permanently hungover. You do not talk to us; makes bad team. You make Gaby worry,” he looked away. 

“You make me worry. One day you will sleep with wrong person; wrong man,” he gestured to Napoleon’s neck, “And it will end badly.” 

Illya took another deep breath as Napoleon wondered if he was sucking all the air from the room, unable to breathe himself. The Russian forced himself to make eye-contact with the other man.

“You deserve better,” he said, so matter of factly, oblivious to the way Napoleon froze, shocked and scared, and melting all at the same time; the wiring short-circuiting somewhere in his brain, his heart thundering so loudly he couldn’t hear, his breathing shallow and rapid.

Oh. _Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am having a lot of fun writing this. the idea had been rolling around, unformed, in my head for quite some time, and while i am struggling to put it into the words i so desperately want, it is coming along nicely. also, i'm a slut for feelings so have fun!
> 
> do you ever feel like you're just missing the vocabulary you need to write a really good story? because fuck, same. 
> 
> find me on Tumblr at [thelittlelionlady](https://thelittlelionlady.tumblr.com/)


	3. Loving Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think i'd forgotten about you? 
> 
> thankyou all for your comments and kudos. i have thoroughly enjoyed writing this, and as such decided that 3 chapters was not enough. 
> 
> this is unbeta'd. enjoy.

Napoleon left on unsteady feet and rather abruptly, only allowing Illya to call him a cab and refusing outright to let him pay or, to meet his sincere gaze. The cab ride was uneventful, and when he unlocked the door to his apartment, he didn’t even bother turning on a light. Instead, he opted to drop his clothes and shoes down the hallway, collapsing on his bed without a second thought and falling into a fitful sleep rife with too-bright eyes, too warm smiles burning his skin, knowing glances that flayed him alive. 

And so it continued; Illya’s sharp glances, Napoleon retreating and reaching in equal measure, unable to stop himself in either. Unable to return the Russian’s gaze and unable to shrink from it; a tiring and electrifying limbo. If Gaby noticed, she said nothing, and for that, Napoleon was grateful. She floated around them with barely a glance in their direction, opting to pretend that she couldn’t see Napoleon’s control faulting and being commanded by the other agent. 

  
  
  


Illya dropped a cup of coffee on Napoleon’s desk, warm and aromatic and delicious. Napoleon looked up briefly, nodded his thanks, and tried to forget the post-fever shaky feeling in his limbs and stomach that the other agent had bought on him the night before. 

“We should talk,” the thick Russian accent hummed, forcing Napoleon to meet his eyes and finding himself suddenly unable to look away. 

He leaned back in his chair and tried to feign nonchalance, lifting the paper cup to his lips and closing his eyes briefly, taking three deep breaths through his nose, letting the coffee assail his senses. 

“What do you want to talk about?” his voice came out as unsteady as he felt. 

Illya closed the door of Napoleon’s small office and sat in the chair opposite. 

“How are you feeling?” Illya asked. 

Napoleon merely blinked at him.

How very  _ unlike  _ his Russian counterpart. He said so. 

Illya shrugged in response and took a sip from his cup, waiting for the American to speak. When it became apparent that Napoleon was not going to willingly volunteer any information without an explanation first, he huffed and folded his arms, looking more like the Illya that Napoleon was familiar with. 

“We had important conversation last night. You left quickly. I wondered if you got home safe, if you are okay this morning?” 

Napoleon took another sip of his coffee, and thought about what he was going to say, adamant that this time he would have a prepared answer. Illya was blessedly content to let him sit and think. 

“I am okay,” he decided, giving some of the truth, but still trying to pull his mask up, his eyes still glassy and fever bright, “Just tired.” 

Illya hummed in response and they lapped back into quiet, contemplative silence, occasionally meeting each other’s eyes and hastily looking away. Heat continued to lick up Napoleon’s spine, and yet the quiet was nice, unhurried and comforting in a way that should have made him panic, and most likely would, after Illya left. 

“I am not surprised you are tired Cowboy.” 

Napoleon looked up from his near-empty cup with a raised eyebrow, beckoning Illya to continue speaking. 

“You run away,” he rumbled, “Good at running away.” 

Napoleon could feel the blood running fast through his veins, thumping loudly in his ears and beginning to drown out all rational thought, again. Illya seemed adept at digging into Napoleon; at ripping him open and forcing him to tell the truth, just with a look. At pulling him out into the open, so he was nothing more than base instinct. 

And gods did Napoleon want to run away. 

He wanted to hide in a storage closet and wait all day for this infuriating battering ram of a man to just leave the office, and him, alone. 

He wanted to heave himself across the table and scramble for the collar of Illya’s shirt and kiss him, hard and wet and open. 

He wanted to draw Illya’s face and kiss his cheek and eyes and lips and nose sweet and slow, and whisper secrets into his skin, whisper that he wanted him, only him, had since Istanbul. Believed it in Spain, when Illya had made it a possibility. Felt it crush him that same place when Illya had given that fucking  _ woman  _ his name so freely, saw how it rolled so easily from her lips. 

His answer was merely a shaky exhale. 

“But you are stuck here now,” he said, gesturing to the desk and the door and, finally, between the two of them. 

Napoleon glanced at the door and then back to Illya, knowing he would never make it past the Russian and wanting desperately to try. 

“What are you doing?” he choked out. 

Illya raised an eyebrow at him, and then the corner of his too perfect mouth in its two tones. Napoleon considered making him bleed. 

Illya shrugged, affecting a calmness Napoleon did not feel. Then, he leaned forward, very slowly, resting one hand under his chin, the other still holding the takeaway cup around the lip, "I am seeing if you have been paying attention Cowboy." 

Napoleon leaned forward too, drawn to the shadows Illya's eyelashes cast over his cheekbones. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip against his better judgement. Against his will. Illya drew him in, an impossible moving Rodin; the perfect blend of light and shadow that would make Vermeer weep; the statuesque physique of a man that the Romans would have lived and died a thousand small deaths for. Napoleon, so enamoured with art, who would never truly understand people, brought figuratively to his knees by two blue eyes and a thick Russian accent. 

Illya leaned away. 

"No." 

Napoleon held his breath for only a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, the tension broken and fraying. 

"No, we cannot do this. Not yet."

The American's hands were shaking. He shoved them into his lap and willed his heart to slow, afraid Illya would hear it. 

"Do what?" he asked, unable to hear himself over the rushing in his head. 

Illya's answering smile was rueful, "You are… puzzle," he said, and then shook his head, "No, more, big question."

Napoleon's laugh was shaky at best, "What does that even mean?" he huffed out, anger and embarrassment lacing his words and clogging his throat. 

"It means," Illya began, eyes gentle and searching, forcing Napoleon's attention again, holding him tightly and comfortably, ignoring the jack rabbiting of his pulse, "that if you do not want yourself, you cannot properly want me." 

Napoleon slammed his hands on the table then, anxiety shaking his whole body, angry at Illya for drawing him apart and flaying him alive. 

“What do you want from me?!”

Illya carefully raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to take one of Napoleon’s hands carefully in his own, “I want you. Just you Cowboy. Without all the made-up things.” 

Napoleon’s legs felt like they were dissolving underneath his body. He let the chair catch him, hand still held tightly, and comfortably in Illya’s, “I don’t know what that looks like,” he whispered, eyes glued to Illya’s, unable to break his gaze even if he had wanted to. His skin felt hot and cold, shivery with a fever that did not exist except under the careful and cared for scrutiny of one Illya Kuryakin. 

“Then I will wait until you do Cowboy,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to Napoleon’s knuckles and barely brushing his lips against them. Napoleon could not stop the shiver that went up his spine. 

He nodded his assent. Illya’s answering smile was blinding. 

  
  
  


Illya bought him coffee every morning, no matter where they were, and sat with him; not touching, just sitting and breathing in coffee steam. 

  
  
  


Something about the Russian has unmoored Napoleon Solo, and now his only lifeline to his new strange reality was Illya.  _ Illya Illya Illya.  _ He sat in the back of the American’s mind constantly, with the comfortable weight that, if examined too closely, bought a mild panic, made him feel like he was dissolving again. When he explained the feeling to Illya, the Russian’s warm smile pulled a few strings in Napoleon back together,  _ “Embrace it,”  _ he whispered and patted the back of Napoleon’s hand as he stood from the chair to find Gaby and check her plans for the mission that night. 

  
  
  


In Belarus, Napoleon followed a direct order from Illya. It saved his life. And more importantly, he didn’t think about it. He heard the voice, felt the same  _ oh  _ feeling, the fizzing, dissolving of his limbs, and the instinctual trust kicked in. He left the premises before the lock was picked, and helped Illya plan another extraction. 

In Egypt, he let Illya’s piercing gaze stop him falling into bed with a local priest’s daughter, instead letting her down gently and telling her to go home. When Napoleon turned around, he spotted the same priest, who raised a glass and nodded with a grim twist of his mouth, grateful he had told his daughter to leave. 

In Colombia, he smoked a local herb and leant into Illya’s rough embrace as he was manhandled into his cot, not remembering what his loose tongue had uttered to the Russian, whose gaze was soft and warm the next morning in a way that made Napoleon want to lick right off his face in a slow, sleepy manor. 

The coast of southern France filled Napoleon with a sense of belonging and warm that he was not sure he would ever feel again. Some of the tension melted from his shoulders, his core felt more centred, and he spent more time alone and cooking than he ever had before. The dissolving of his limbs, which he had more than enough time mulling over and focusing on, began to feel like it was forming into something; his body felt lighter, his mouth easier to lift, his chest, looser. In these two weeks, Napoleon realised it had been three months since he’d taken a lover to bed. He tried to find the heavy panic in his chest at what this could mean, instead finding his skin consistently kissed by Illya’s too knowing, too praising gaze. He ignored the flush it brought to his cheeks. 

Monaco had Napoleon fishing a bullet out of Illya’s shoulder with his fingers while Gaby mopped blood up around the wound and handed him supplies to roughly sew the absolutely  _ stupid  _ Russian back together for their flight out in following three hours. He kept up a constant stream of muttering that was more telling than Colombia. Illya and Gaby’s eyes met over the top of Napoleon’s head as he bent low of the Russian’s torso to work. 

  
  
  


In London, the trio finished their report to Waverley who commended them on a job well done and skillfully did not remark on their exceptional coherency. Gaby kissed both boys on the cheek, wished them a lovely weekend, grabbed her purse, and made a dash for the girls at the front desk. 

Illya and Napoleon walked together, stride for stride to first Illya’s office, and then Napoleon’s, collecting their belongings as they went. Their companionable silence sat heavily with them all the way down the street outside the building. 

“Well,” Napoleon began, meeting Illya’s eyes with a calmness that he had been unable to affect five months ago, when this dance began, “Have a lovely weekend Peril. I’ll see you Monday.” 

He affected a small salute to the Russian and turned to leave. Illya caught his coat sleeve. 

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, voice low, and full of promise, still providing Napoleon with the choice. 

The dissolving light feeling returned to Napoleon’s body slowly, moving to his chest and filling it with a warmth that was very much beginning to make a perfect, misshapen sort of sense to Napoleon’s rather fragile sense of self. Illya’s eyes showed nothing more than their usual warmth and steadiness; the praise that asked Napoleon to  _ feel.  _ Always asking. 

The question, the same question Napoleon now recognised had been unspoken and asked continually in every silence throughout this softening, hit him squarely in the gut. 

_ Oh.  _

“Yes,” he said, and Illya’s smile lit up his whole face again, “I would like that very much.”  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i'm a fucking sap. 
> 
> quick note: napoleon solo 100% is an anxious mess and likely has a praise kink. this has been a psa. 
> 
> find me on Tumblr at [thelittlelionlady](https://thelittlelionlady.tumblr.com/)


	4. Manic Rhapsody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all deserve wonderful things. 
> 
> this chapter is longer than the others. you'll see why. i did this just for you, and also because my friend told me if i actually finished this i would get to see the unpublished porn they wrote years ago that i have been asking about for just as many years. i won this bet. i get the porn. 
> 
> so do you. so enjoy.

“So,” Napoleon said, returning Illya’s smile with one of his own, “Yours or mine?” 

“My house Cowboy,” he murmured. It sent a small slice of heat sliding down Napoleon’s spine to pool warmly in his belly. He bit his lip and nodded, pushing the feeling away. There was time. Illya had made sure of that; he wasn’t going anywhere, and Napoleon only wanted to be where he was. 

Illya hailed a cab, and it was easy. It was easy to sit beside him and engage in conversation, and it was easy to follow him into his apartment and let the Russian take his coat and pour him a drink. It was easy to take off his tie and his shoes and pad around the apartment in his socks and rolled up shirt sleeves and just _be._ It was easy to laugh with him, and play chess with him, and sip his drink and bask in the sweltering warmth of the Illya that Napoleon had always craved. 

And that was just it; Napoleon was not oblivious to the heat surrounding them. He was not blind to Illya’s attentive stare, the heat of it, licking up his spine, watching his mouth. He was not disregardful of Illya’s lip biting and licking, the loosening of his shirt sleeves, the popping of buttons at his throat, revealing the white alabaster that Napoleon had only ever inspected with the clinical obedience of a field nurse. But Napoleon was also not concerned with it either, the building anticipation of a smouldering want in his gut and burning between the two of them. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted it to _last._

Illya would not move until Napoleon did, and Napoleon really was in no rush. 

“Another round Peril?” Napoleon asked, shaking his glass and gesturing to Illya’s. 

The Russian hummed as he reset the chessboard, sweeping all Napoleon’s black pieces into his big hands and setting them down gently, one by one. 

Napoleon drew his eyes away to meet Illya’s, regretting it immediately when he noticed the absolutely devilish smirk on his lips, the unbridled want in his big blue eyes.

“Oh,” Napoleon hummed, already reaching across the table, “that’s just unfair.”

He fisted the front of Illya’s shirt and drew his face close. The kiss was hot and wet and slow and deep, easy in that obliterating way Illya had set to rights in Napoleon all those months ago. The Russian leaned into it, reaching up to curl a big warm hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck, and sliding his tongue carefully along the seam of Napoleon’s lips, asking a question that was answered with an enthusiasm Napoleon was not sure he possessed until that moment. His tongue curled in alongside Illya’s, tasting the sweet, smokiness of scotch and something crisp and warm and distinctly _Illya._ He reached out for the broader man’s shoulders to steady himself and instead found his knees smacking none too gracefully into the low table between them. 

“Ow, fuck,” Napoleon mumbled against Illya’s mouth, snapping his eyes open to meet Illya’s. He couldn’t stop the helpless laughter that burst bright and loud from his mouth. Illya huffed against his cheek, tracing his lips across Napoleon’s jaw while he continued to chuckle, sending shockwaves down his spine while radiance filled his stomach and chest and continued out in hazy swells. 

“Peril,” he hiccupped, “Just stop for a second.”

The Russian leaned back and his eyes were inexplicably fond. Napoleon kissed him again, soft and smooth before disentangling himself to fall back in his chair and rub the bruises on his shins. 

“Romantic,” he muttered to himself, laughing again, unable to stop now. 

Illya leaned forward and propped his chin on his hands, watching Napoleon with barely concealed want, “You are beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, accent thick like jam and equally as delicious. 

Napoleon’s eyes snapped up to meet his, heat finally settling into his spine and abdomen with a ferocity that threatened to consume him and Illya both, and promised to remain untempered for quite a while. He bit his lip and studied Illya’s mouth, drawing his gaze slowly upwards to meet Illya’s own, only to find the Russian’s eyes dragging with a heavy embrace down his own body. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, standing abruptly and stretching, letting Illya look, enjoying it, craving it. 

Illya rose too, slowly, sinuously, with a sharp smile filled with want and hunger, “Come here,” he said, and Napoleon was helpless to do anything other than respond. 

He practically fell into Illya, limbs shaky, mouth greedy, lips forced open by Illya’s own. His senses were filled with nothing but Illya, arms wrapped around his body in an intense iron cage, bodies pressed together from chest to knee. Napoleon was agonisingly aware of the way their crotches rubbed together through all of the layers of clothing. It made his breath hitch and clutched at his lungs, stealing his air. And yet, he found himself unable to care, just grasping for more of Illya, filling his hands and arms and body with as much of the man as he could reach, grasping for the hem of his shirt, fingers aching to make contact with skin.

Illya pulled back to let Napoleon pant against his mouth. One arm looped firmly around Napoleon’s back, while the other rose to run through his hair, fingers gentle against his scalp. Napoleon’s fingers trembled against Illya’s stomach. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered. 

The choked hum that emanated from the back of Napoleon’s throat made Illya smile again. He pulled Illya’s face back to his and kissed him fervently, heatedly. Desperately hoping that Illya would catch on. 

With his mouth occupied, Napoleon took the opportunity to fumble at Illya’s belt buckle with shaking fingers. Illya huffed a laugh into Napoleon’s mouth and kissed him hard, unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers and licking into Napoleon’s mouth with skill. 

Napoleon got his hand into Illya’s trousers just as the Russian popped the last button on his shirt, and sighed into his mouth. He pushed Napoleon’s shirt down his shoulders, forcing the American to disentangle himself and discard his shirt on the coffee table, Illya’s mouth never leaving his. 

“We should,” he began, before his mouth was assaulted again and he was pushed and tripping over Illya’s feet down the hallway. 

“Bed,” Illya muttered against his mouth, “Want you in bed.” 

Napoleon shoved Illya into the hallway wall and palmed his crotch, feeling the hard muscle and groaning as though his own was being touched. Illya tugged his hair harshly, biting at his lips and sucking on his tongue and he could hardly believe it was real. His mind almost separate from his body, breath rushing out in hard huffs. Illya traced his jawline and the tendons standing out on his neck with teeth and tongue. Napoleon could not help the groan, his hips involuntarily rolling into Illya’s, who moaned in turn. 

The Russian’s nails raked down his back and cupped his arse firmly, pulling Napoleon close, urging him to continue the movement. Napoleon practically whimpered, burying his face in Illya’s shoulder and panting, blood fizzling. 

“Stop,” he huffed, pushing against Illya’s chest, “Stop, or this will be over very quickly.” 

Illya laughed and let Napoleon go, breathing equally as heavily. Napoleon smiled; Illya was quite the picture, debauched, pants undone, cock straining in his underwear, a small wet patch evident. Napoleon found he was salivating and staring, gaze broken only when Illya lifted his chin with a finger, still smiling, eyes impossibly warm. 

“Bed,” he rumbled, grabbing Napoleon’s arm and steering him to the bedroom. As soon as the door was closed, the darker man launched himself at his partner, ripping his shirt off, pulling at his pants, falling to his knees. He could smell Illya, the musk of him, the arousal; warm and wet and intoxicating. His mouth watered at the prospect of finally getting his mouth on Illya, to feel the weight of him, the flex of his thighs and stomach muscles; the prospect of being able to pull his partner apart with only his lips and tongue, the power of it. It made his limbs feel like they were dissipating into particles.

He worked the trousers down Illya’s thighs, tossing them to the side and gripping the man’s hips, asking, practically begging. The flush in Illya’s cheeks matched the heat of his gaze, eyes wide and blown out, barely an iris; he reached out and ran a hand through Napoleon’s hair again, his fingers grazing his cheekbone, urging him on. Napoleon practically purred.

“You are perfect,” Illya’s accent was thick with want, voice low and breathy, “So beautiful. Made for this.”

Napoleon nosed into Illya’s groin, licking at the skin and trying desperately not to completely lose his mind with what was happening. He wanted to commit it all to memory. 

“Do you like that Cowboy?” he rumbled, inordinately pleased with himself. Napoleon blushed and tried to look away but Illya grasped his chin and held him tightly, bringing his lips down to ghost along Napoleon’s own. All he could do was shudder. 

“Do you like it when I call you pretty?” he whispered into Napoleon’s mouth, “Answer me, Napoleon, use your words,” he continued, holding Napoleon’s jaw open and forcing him to make eye contact, to see the choice, the options, the want. 

Napoleon whimpered, “Fuck,” he breathed. 

Illya hummed and smiled, hand gripping the base of his cock like he was trying to starve off an impending orgasm. 

The American leaned forward, without breaking eye contact or Illya’s grasp on his chin, and licked a stripe from root to tip, up the Russian’s very hard cock. 

The room was quiet, save for the sounds of their harsh breathing, both of them twitching as their muscles struggled to remain upright, to remain in check, to not fight each other and fuck each other into the floor. Napoleon was going to savour this; the blessed silence as Illya was rendered momentarily speechless in the wake of what his partner was about to do. 

“Oh blyad’,” he stuttered, pupils blown wide, mouth open in a perfect 'oh'. Napoleon smirked up at him, finally feeling some control of the situation, even as his breath rattled out of him in heavy pants. He leaned forward again, and without any preamble, swallowed down half of Illya’s length before the man could register it. The taller man stuttered out a shocked sigh, met Napoleon’s eyes, and ground out the most filthy noise Napoleon had ever heard in his life. He gripped one of Illya’s thighs, and wrapped his other hand around the base of Illya’s cock, stroking the skin he couldn’t quite reach with his lips. 

Illya’s hands sank into his hair, not pushing, just guiding, mumbling things under his breath that Napoleon was sure, to a native Russian speaker, still would not have made any sense. He risked looking up from the task at hand to meet Illya’s wanton and half-lidded stare. His cock twitched in his underwear, and he resisted the urge to fumble for his own fly and free his now painfully hard erection. 

Illya’s other hand met the corner of Napoleon’s lips, where they stretched obscenely around his length, puffy and red and glistening in spit. 

“So handsome,” he said, voice deep and rich and sending a myriad of shivers down Napoleon’s spine. His skin broke out in gooseflesh, and his cock twitched hard again. His responding moan was loud and lewd. 

Illya’s eyes, bright with lust and admiration, never left Napoleon’s face, “So good at this,” he grunted, thrusting his hips forward minutely. Napoleon stretched his jaw, trying to be accomodating. Illya’s hands tightened in his hair, his voice breaking over a thick litany of praise that, if Napoleon wasn’t careful, would have him coming in his pants very soon. 

The American could feel the burn in his knees and shoulder blades, the delicious stretch of his muscles as he looked up at Illya, bathed in gold light, sculpted and delicious, eyelashes casting long shadows over his high cheekbones, sweat prickling in his hairline and darkening the strands to an almost brassy hue. His hands tugged on the strands at the back of Napoleon’s head, and he found himself hastening to suck Illya down harder, faster, feeling his thighs shake. 

Illya stuttered, “Oh, Cowboy, I’m going to - “ He tried pulling Napoleon’s mouth off and later Napoleon would admit that it was a valiant effort, but he had dreamed of this; of a dark head between Illya’s thighs, sucking him down so intensely he would not be able to stand up straight. 

When Illya came, it was with a grunt, an oath. A deep rumbling that shook through his body and down into Napoleon’s, shaking him apart in his core, blinded by how fucking _good_ it felt to do this, to feel Illya’s fingers grip his hair and pull him down hard, to feel him stiffen to beyond measurable proportions and feel his legs and arms and torso shake and dissolve. To taste him, so base and human. 

Illya let him go quickly, keeping a hand on his shoulder and he sank to the floor in front of Napoleon shakily, a blissed smile on his face, “You are very good with your mouth,” he said, reaching out to swipe at the corner of Napoleon’s lips.

He beamed under the praise, breathing deeply through his nose. Illya ran a hand through his sweaty hair and then glanced down at the obvious tenting in Napoleon’s underwear. How he hadn’t come when Illya did he would never know, and silently thanked whatever deity was horny enough to listen for this one miracle. 

“Do you want some help with that?” The Russian smirked, eyes warm and eager and light. 

Napoleon practically launched himself at the man, grabbing him by the shoulders, smashing their lips together in a kiss that lacked finesse and contained more heat than Illya was prepared for. He snaked one arm around Napoleon’s waist, holding him up, and the other slid down his chest to grope him through his underwear. 

The smaller man keened loudly, “I won’t last,” he huffed, practically whined, “I’m sorry.” 

Illya nuzzled into the junction of his neck and shoulder, “It is okay,” he whispered, reaching into Napoleon’s pants and grasping his weeping cock firmly in a gun calloused hand, “I just want to see you enjoy yourself,” and with that, he began a firm and measured stroke that had Napoleon thrusting up into his hand and keening in seconds. 

If it wasn’t for Illya’s firm grip on his waist Napoleon was sure he would have fallen over. Illya’s arm tightened further, reaching around his body to hold him up high, a warm hand under his armpit. Napoleon’s head thumped forward onto Illya’s shoulder as the man increased to an almost punishing pace, in time with Napoleon’s steadily growing pants and groans. Illya could feel his abdominal muscles tensing and relaxing, his thighs quivering. Napoleon was close.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he rasped into Napoleon’s ear, feeling him shudder and whine, “Are you going to come on me, Cowboy?” 

And that was all it took really; Napoleon gasped, froze, spasmed and practically shouted his release right there on Illya’s lap, who did not let up his punishing pace until the man was twitching in overstimulation. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, breath hitching. 

Illya hummed, setting Napoleon back on his floor and reaching for his shirt, to wipe his hand and his and Napoleon’s abdomens. 

“So,” Napoleon began, after a few minutes in companionable and warm silence, while they both caught their breath, “Another drink?”

Illya beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and _fin_.
> 
> this is my first ever porn written ever.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i stole the title from a hozier song. 
> 
> find me on Tumblr at [thelittlelionlady](https://thelittlelionlady.tumblr.com/)


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